


a little bit longer

by goldbooksblack



Series: the one that you love [3]
Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-CHOG, minor Alastair/Thomas, pre-COI
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29794275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldbooksblack/pseuds/goldbooksblack
Summary: “Grace.” That sound, again, so soft and hesitant that it can only be coming from her own diseased mind. The Silent City drives people mad, as the rumors go.“Grace.”She stops moving. The sound of that voice, the memory of a damp dress and the scent of burning paper in the air—“No,” she whispers to herself.“Grace, it’s me. It’s Christopher.”Grace and Lucie unravel the consequences of Grace's actions.
Relationships: Cordelia Carstairs/James Herondale, Grace Blackthorn/Christopher Lightwood, Jesse Blackthorn/Lucie Herondale
Series: the one that you love [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1750111
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	a little bit longer

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics to and the translation of Edith Piaf's Mon Dieu can be found [here](https://lyricstranslate.com/en/mon-dieu-my-god.html).

_Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu . . ._

_Laissez-le-moi_

_Encore un peu,_

_Mon amoureux._

Lucie Herondale sits in the library, watching her sister-in-law. Grace is small among the towering bookshelves and in front of the panel that deliberates her fate. She has been freshly bathed; Lucie notes the new blue dress and the gray ribbon in her hair. 

Lucie’s fingers twitch. She wishes she had a pen in hand, if only to jot down exactly how Grace looks at this very moment. There is one just out of her reach, near her mother’s arm. But it is not the distance that stops Lucie from snatching it up and scribbling furiously. No, it is the fractured feeling in her heart. This is the woman that she hates, the woman who stole her brother’s happiness and stole Cordelia’s happiness. 

But nothing is as simple as it is in Lucie’s stories, and for that reason she cannot find the resolve to condemn Grace to ink on paper. 

Last night, Jesse had come to her. 

“Lucie.” She had memorized the cadence of his voice, the low timbre of it. The way a heady thrill ran through her bones in response. But when Lucie had turned around to face Jesse, the excitement had disappeared quickly. Every time she saw him, he was faded more and more at the edges, like a water-stained sheet of paper. But there was still usually a smile on his face, a gentleness and a playfulness that made her blush and laugh. 

There was none of that now. 

“Jesse. Is something wrong?”

Jesse’s fingers—the outline of his fingers—had clenched. “My sister.”

“Oh.” Lucie tried very hard not to let her disappointment show. “Yes, I heard about that.”

“Lucie . . .” Jesse floated closer to her. “You must defend her.”

“What?” She stepped away from him. “Jesse, she manipulated James and tricked him into marrying her. She forced Matthew to kiss her. She—”

“I know. She did all of those things and likely more that neither of us know about. But please, Lucie,” his eyes were spectrally dark. “Please believe me when I say that you cannot blame Grace for what she has done.”

Lucie had simply folded her arms. 

Jesse let out a small groan of frustration. “Grace has lived a difficult life.”

“I know. I imagine life with your mother is not easy, but that doesn’t justify—”

“Lucie, please. Listen to me. Grace appeared suddenly in Idris one day when I was fifteen. No warning from my mother, nothing. Her parents had been slaughtered in Surrey in a freak demon attack. No one knows what caused it; the case is still open. From the moment that Grace stepped foot in the Blackthorn Manor, she has been subject to my mother’s efforts to turn her into a tool.” 

“A tool?”

“I don’t know exactly. Mother never spoke of her intentions in front of me, not even when I was alive. I think she hoped to keep me from her schemes. But she spoke freely with Grace. She never intended to protect her as she had protected me. And . . .” Jesse hesitated. “After I died, my mother prolonged her time with Grace. Grace would . . . Grace would come see me, and her eyes would be puffy and there would be bruises on her face and arms. I asked her about them, but she would always snap at me or ignore me completely.” 

“I didn’t know about that.” 

“And there is the matter of my mother’s consorting with demons.” Jesse sighed deeply and offered her a rueful smile. “I could go on and on about my family’s issues, but sunrise hastens towards us.”

“Jesse.” Lucie reached for him. The barest glimmer of warmth pressed against her hand. “I—”

“Lucie, I am begging you. I know the unforgivable things my sister has done to your family and your friends. But I implore you: Think of Grace’s circumstances.” 

Lucie closes her eyes. She hardly sleeps at night these days, waiting for Jesse to come see her. No one else knows about him. Her need to keep him close to her is desperate and painful. Lucie has opened her mouth so many times with the intention of confessing everything to Cordelia—before finding it suddenly closed, replaced with a careful smile. Jesse hides in her heart, broken off like an arrowhead. 

She had promised nothing to him last night, merely turned away in silent conflict before she had felt him sigh—as much as a ghost could sigh—and leave. 

“Grace Herondale,” Inquisitor Bridgestock intones. Lucie feels her mother flinch. _Herondale._ “You stand accused of conspiring to harm James Herondale on behalf of the demon Belial.” 

Grace does not blink. She simply fixes Bridgestock with the same icy stare Lucie has seen her use so many times. “Yes.” 

“Inquisitor.” Gabriel steps forward, and Lucie’s heart squeezes. _Christopher and Anna._ She can see their names painted all over her uncle’s face. Aunt Cecily is somewhere in the infirmary, tending to the wounded. This is another reason to hate Grace. She has endangered just about everyone dear to Lucie. Her best friend. Her brother. Her cousins. For a brief moment, Lucie entertains a vision of her lunging for Grace and ripping her hair out by her pretty gray ribbon. “This . . . trial. Should it not take place in Idris?” 

“Yes, but—”

“I specifically requested this, Gabriel.” Her father’s voice, low and intent, causes a shiver to race through her. 

Her uncle looks briefly contemplative. “Will, the Mortal Sword—”

“It will take time to travel to Idris and set up a trial. Time that we do not have.” Her father draws her uncle in close, and though Lucie sees his mouth moving, she cannot hear his words. By the end of their whispered conversation, Gabriel re-takes his seat and the proceedings continue uninterrupted. 

The Inquisitor clears his throat and begins anew. “Our lack of the Mortal Sword means that we have no concrete method of ensuring that you tell the truth, Mrs. Herondale. Do you intend to tell the truth?” 

What a stupid little question. 

But Grace nods and says in her lilting voice, “Yes, Inquisitor, I do.”

“Excellent. Mrs. Herondale, please recount your experience with Tatiana Blackthorn. From the start.”

“I was adopted by Moth—Tatiana after my parents died. I believe you were there to escort me to Idris for the hearing, Inquisitor.”

All eyes land on Bridgestock. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “Correct. I was.” 

“She has taken care of me for the past eight years.”

“And her son? Jesse Blackthorn? I understand your time with Tatiana would have overlapped slightly with his.”

It is so small. Such a small gesture that no one else but Lucie notices it. The slight tightening of Grace’s jaw, the way she runs the pleats of her dress through the vulnerable skin between her fingers. “Yes. I lived with Jesse for a few years before his . . . death.” 

Lucie’s breath comes out in a startled, stuttered exhale. A relieved breath. 

“And in that time, did you see Tatiana engage in any strange behaviors? Any consorting with demons?”

“No.”

“After Jesse’s death? Was that when she began to communicate with demons?”

“Yes.”

“Can you describe exactly what she did?”

“She would invite warlocks into our home. Pay them enormous sums of money to summon demons and create potions. And . . .” Grace’s voice trailed off. “I don’t know exactly when she became acquainted with Belial, but eventually they began communicating.” 

“And do you know the reason behind Tatiana’s desire to engage in contact with Belial?”

“I—” Grace coughed, and her face went pink. “She has not told me much. But I believe her intention was to seek revenge against her brothers.” 

“Revenge?” Gideon’s voice rises along with his stance, and he is on his feet in an instant. Lucie’s uncle has aged years in just weeks, the ashen cloud of Barbara’s death hanging over him always. 

Grace nods stiffly, as if she cannot bring herself to speak. “She . . . she blames you and your brother, Mr. Lightwood. For your roles in her father and her husband’s deaths.”

“Our roles?” Thunders Gabriel, face red. “By the Angel, Tatiana still doesn’t realize that the only reason she is alive is because of us? That she was lucky to escape her husband’s fate? I swear—”

“Gabriel.” Bridgestock’s tone brokers no rebuttal. “I understand your concern, but Mrs. Herondale has not completed her account. Please take a seat.” The Inquisitor nods to Grace. “Continue.” 

“Tatiana intends to ruin the weapons made at the Adamant Citadel. We are . . . engaged in a plan that involves her working from within the Iron Sisters, and involves me on the outside.” 

Frenetic protests shake the room, Shadowhunter after Shadowhunter shouting vicious and panicked insults at Grace. She shrinks back. 

“Silence!” The Inquisitor bellows. Bridgestock looks suddenly very tired, and Lucie feels a rare flicker of sympathy for the man. “Silence. I will now open the floor for questions.”

“Where does James fit into this?” Her mother’s voice emerges suddenly from beside her, and Lucie flinches. 

Grace swallows roughly. Lucie can see her throat moving. “I . . . in exchange for his assistance, Belial demanded that James be brought to him. He wanted him . . . pliant. Susceptible to persuasion.”

“And you made him pliant using this?” The silver bracelet dangles off of Lucie’s father’s pen, as if Will cannot bring himself to touch it with his bare skin. 

“Yes.”

“How?” Will demands. “Is this bracelet enchanted? Is it cursed?”

“I don’t know,” Grace admits. “I have always . . . possessed a certain amount of persuasion. Since I was young. People always seemed more easily convinced by me. I don’t know why.”

“You don’t know why or you won’t tell us?” Charles Fairchild leans forward, eyes narrowing. 

“I don’t know.” Grace looks around the room, and for the first time since she has known her, Lucie sees desperation brimming in her eyes. “I—I never even realized it was an unordinary talent until Tatiana began using me for it.”

“That still does not answer what this bracelet does.” Will launches himself out of his chair and walks to the windows. The bracelet swings jerkily from the fountain pen. 

Grace takes a deep breath. “The bracelet inhibits James’s normal defenses against persuasion.”

“But James should have never needed such an object because of your powers—”

“James wasn’t susceptible to my powers.” 

“What do you mean?” Demands Gabriel. 

“I don’t know!” Grace bursts out, a far cry from the poised society lady Lucie has become accustomed to. “All I know is that James is the only person whom I can’t mesmerize, and Tatiana instructed me to give him that bracelet.” 

Lucie’s father mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like profanity. Tessa leans forward. “But this revenge plan of Tatiana’s . . . was it really something she needed Belial for? Is there no other motive for her demonic communication?” 

Lucie shivers, gooseflesh rising on her arms. Her back stiffens, and her eyes meet Grace Herondale’s for the first time that morning. And selfishly, hungrily, desperately, Lucie pleads, _no, no, no. For him._

“No. There is no other motive.”

_Un jour, deux jours, huit jours . . ._

_Laissez-le-moi_

_Encore un peu_

_À moi . . ._

For someone who has just awoken after weeks of lying immobilized in a hospital bed, Christopher is surprisingly coherent. 

“Christopher. You must rest.” His father rests a hand on his shoulder. 

“No.” He struggles against Gabriel’s hand. “What did you say about Grace?”

His father looks at him appraisingly. A bead of sweat trickles leisurely down the nape of Christopher’s neck. “I know this must come as a shock to you. Thomas told me she was helping you in the laboratory.” Gabriel shook his head. “You must not blame yourself for her treachery, Christopher. There is no way you could have possibly known.” 

Christopher’s eyes stray to the bed across from his, its sheets flat and carefully made. Uncle Will and Aunt Tessa had swept James out of the medical wing the moment he’d awoken. “But I . . . I still don’t understand. How was she involved in the latest attack?”

Gabriel sighs, but it is a tired sound, not a frustrated one. He slumps heavily in his chair and Christopher can almost imagine his father, twenty years younger, slouching the same way. “Tatiana.”

“Aunt Tatiana?”

“Yes. She blames your Uncle Gideon and me for ‘killing’ your grandfather and her husband.” Bitterness coats every syllable. “We knew she had never truly recovered from the emotional impact of the event, but we never imagined that she would go to these lengths to exact revenge. Or that she would seek revenge through our children.” 

“Barbara. Oh Angel.” Christopher covers his face with his hands. Barbara, Barbara, Barbara. His sweet cousin, who had always pretended to be interested in his projects for five seconds longer than everyone else. 

His father nods. “Grace said . . . Grace said it was Belial’s gift to Tatiana. A token of good faith.” 

“I—” Christopher presses his nails into his forehead, attempting to staunch the pain of an oncoming migraine. 

“Chris, relax.” Gabriel fetches his coat from a nearby rack and moves to leave. “You need your rest.”

“No, wait.” Christopher grabs his father’s arm. “Where is Grace now?”

_Le temps de s’adorer,_

_De se le dire,_

_Le temps de se fabriquer_

_Des souvenirs._

“I’m fine.” 

“James, that’s the fifth time you’ve said that. In the past hour.”

Her brother shoots his _parabatai_ a dark look. “The rest of you are walking on eggshells near me. I can feel it.”

“James, it’s perfectly fine not to be fine. She was your wife, after all.” Cordelia’s dark eyes fix on his from her spot next to Matthew. 

James sighs and runs a bandaged hand through his hair. “I don’t know if you lot will believe me, but I really am fine. When I woke up . . . it was as if a haze had been lifted from my mind. As if I could see things clearly for the first time. And I began to recall the time I spent without the bracelet. I wasn’t able to recall those memories when I was still wearing it. The point is, I’m no longer thinking of Grace. I’m thinking of Christopher and Anna.” He turns to Alastair. “Did you hear any news before you were discharged?”

“Both of them were still being monitored when I left. I overheard one of the nurses telling Gabriel that Anna was recovering quickly, but that there were worries over Christopher’s mental function?”

“Mental function?” 

Lucie notes the way Alastair’s eyes seem to light up at the sound of Thomas’s voice—and then dim as Thomas averts his eyes. “He’s experiencing migraines. They worry that if he is discharged too early, then the migraines will become chronic and debilitating.” 

“Christopher,” Lucie says in a small, pained tone. Her beautifully scatter-brained cousin. The most brilliant person she knows. 

“And that’s why we need to find Tatiana. And Belial. Quickly.” James studies the pile of ancient texts spread open in front of them. “Has anyone contacted Tatiana yet?”

“I overheard Bridgestock talking about it. The Enclave sent emissaries, but the Iron Sisters are in an uproar. They took offense to accusations that they are purposely tampering with weapons.” Thomas shakes his head in clear frustration.

“But it’s just Tatiana,” protests Cordelia. “Not all of the Iron Sisters.”

“They do not see it that way. _Ignis aurum probat._ Apparently that extends to accusations of treachery.”

“Where are the emissaries now?” 

“Within the Adamant Citadel, biding their time.”

“Then there is little we can do here in London. Matthew, did you contact Magnus?” Asked James.

“He wasn’t home. I’ll pay him another visit later in the afternoon.”

“I’ll accompany you,” Lucie says. 

Matthew frowns. “Lucie—”

“I, too, am a Herondale.” She straightens her back. “I can hardly let James claim all of the Magnus Bane family favors for himself, can I?” 

_She would invite warlocks into our home. Pay them enormous sums of money to summon demons and create potions._

Grace had lied to the Inquisitor’s face. Lucie would ensure that it was not in vain. 

_Mon Dieu, Oh oui . . . mon Dieu,_

_Laissez-le-moi_

_Remplir un peu_

_Ma vie . . ._

The carriage rocks unsteadily over the cobblestones. Lucie watches people hurry by before the view blurs and she drops the curtain. She shifts back into her seat only to find Matthew studying her. “What?”

It has been a very long time since she and Matthew have been alone like this. An uncomfortable heat creeps up Lucie’s neck. Matthew is a flighty creature. She has put her pen to paper many times, intent on finally describing him, only to find that she cannot pinpoint a single facet of his character. Matthew is a mystery masqueraded as a comedy. 

“You have . . . changed.”

“I hope so,” she says dryly. “I’d hate to have remained a snotty twelve-year-old forever.”

“I don’t mean in the past few years.” Matthew rolls his eyes, and for a moment, it is as if they have never left the old times. “You have changed over the course of the past few months.” 

“How so?”

“You are somberer. More earnest.” All mirth disappears from his face. “We have all matured, but I believe it is you who has aged the most. And I can only guess at why.”

Lucie is overcome with a sudden and urgent desire to tell Matthew everything. Everything, from Jesse to her spectral visions to the suffocating secret that now binds together her and Grace Blackthorn. 

She does not. 

Instead, she says, “Matthew, did you ever . . . did you ever see me as more than James’s sister?” Her voice sounds so small, so delicate. And she knows what he will say before she even finishes her question. 

He gives her a heartbreaking smile. “Once.”

“But no longer?”

Had she been less bold and had he been less self-flagellating, they might have found their way to each other long ago. But while we can change who we are, we can seldom change who we have become.

And in the bubble of calm within the carriage, Lucie does not feel pain when Matthew nods slightly. She has always cared for him more than she cared for her own romantic impulses. Matthew searches and searches for love in others because he cannot conjure it up in himself. He has evicted her from the chamber of his heart where muscle and tendon warps around eros, and has given her new accommodations in the same room in which he holds Thomas and Christopher and James. 

“And what of Cordelia?”

At this, Matthew exhales sharply. “Lucie,” he says, and the edge of his voice trembles. “In your stories, do your characters . . . do they ever stop to think? Or do they simply move and adventure without cessation?”

She frowns. “Well, they think about where to go next. They think about their previous experience and how it informs their future choices.”

“But do they ever . . . do they ever look back and wonder who they were? Before all the adventure?” 

Lucie pulls on a loose thread in the seat. It unravels. “Not often, I suppose.” 

Matthew remains silent for a moment. Then, “Do you ever look back, then?”

“Sometimes. Matthew—”

“Because I do. I look back at what I’ve done and I wonder how I arrived here. In London, at the Institute, in this very carriage—I wonder about it all. I suppose human memory is a collection of fixed points in one’s life: memories and events. But I can’t help but think that the choices of my past—the sins of my past—” He cuts himself off. “‘Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun / I had been better than I now can be / The passions which have torn me would have slept.’ Isn’t that how the Byron verse goes?”

“Matthew.” Lucie reaches across the aisle and takes his hands in hers. “Matthew, I feel as though I’m missing a piece of this puzzle. I cannot speak to you, friend to friend, unless you allow me inside your heart.” 

“Lucie, I—” The clip-clop of hooves on the road stops, as does the carriage. “We’re here.” He slips his hands away.

“Matthew, please.” Lucie grips his wrist. “Please promise me that we will continue this conversation. Please, will you promise me?”

He smiles at her, and there is a trace of the old Matthew, the one that scaled buildings and bathed in liquor. She hates it. “How could I ever deny you such a thing?”

“Promise me, Matthew. I want to hear you say it.” 

“I promise, Lucie, that we will continue this conversation. Now—onwards.” He steps out of the carriage first and freezes. 

“What is it?”

He shakes his head and helps her down. The sunlight hits Lucie’s eyes and she squints. And there, at the entryway of the most elaborate townhouse she has ever seen, is Magnus Bane himself. He is dressed in a fashionable dark tailcoat with pinstripe pants. His catlike eyes glow gold in the sun, and a pipe dangles between two fingers. “Ah, a Fairchild and a Herondale coming to call,” the warlock muses. “Just like old times.”

“How did you know we were coming?” 

“It was becoming too quiet around here.” Magnus beckons for them to enter. “Can I offer you anything? Tea? Coffee? Absinthe?”

“Not absinthe,” says Matthew, so quietly Lucie almost misses it. Magnus, however, seems to hear him perfectly, and nods. 

Deep color-creamed hues shrouds the salon. A large mirror hangs above the mantelpiece . The curtains have been coaxed to the sides with ribbons, natural light hitting the center of the room and illuminating the gilt table. It is already laden with tea, coffee, cream, honey, sugar, and biscuits. 

“Dreadfully sterile, isn’t it?” Magnus notices Lucie staring at the white wainscot on the wall. “I keep telling the owner to repaint it, but they’re awfully traditional. Me, I prefer to stay ahead of the times. A nice coat of canary yellow, perhaps. Or a deep blue.” He looks at her. “Not unlike the color of your eyes.”

“Or Dad’s eyes.”

“Yes,” murmurs Magnus. He offers her an indecipherable smile. “Treasure those eyes, Lucie. You Herondales have an arresting power. Some people would do anything for you. Just because of those eyes.”

“Is that how you met my father?”

“Yes. No.” Magnus flops himself dramatically on the couch. “I met your father because I have a fatal flaw called ‘rescuing damsels in distress,’ except the damsels are typically young, tortured, beautiful male youths.” He places his hands on his stomach and stares up at the ceiling. “One of these days, you young Shadowhunters will be the death of me.” 

“Mister Bane—”

“Magnus.”

“Magnus,” Lucie amends. “We’re here because we were wondering if you could provide more insight on Belial’s demon attacks.”

“Ah. Belial,” Magnus muses. “James’s grandfather.”

“He’s _my_ grandfather too.”

“Only a Herondale.”

“Sorry?”

“Only a Herondale would jump at the chance to affiliate herself with a Prince of Hell.” Magnus punctuates his sentence with a long-suffering sigh. 

“I don’t like to be forgotten. Especially not when it comes to murderous demon grandparents.”

“Somehow, I think your father would applaud you for that.” Magnus sits up. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. The warlock community in London has been a smidge cold to me, so I’ve had to reach out to a friend of mine. Unfortunately, he’s currently in Constantinople.” 

“When will he be back?” Matthew asks, a crease between his brows. 

“Uncertain.” Magnus reaches into his breast pocket and draws out a folded piece of paper. “‘Dear Magnus, kindly desist from sending me more irksome letters. I would like to enjoy the remaining two weeks I have here. Not fondly, Ragnor Fell.’”

“That sounds . . . bad.” 

“Oh, it isn’t,” Magnus replies cheerily. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have given me the time frame of his holiday.”

“Is there nothing we can do?” 

“I might remind you of the last encounter you had with Belial.” Gone is Magnus’s playful mirth, replaced by cautionary gravity. “I understand your haste. I do. But actively seeking out a Prince of Hell and provoking him is not a solution to your troubles.” 

“No,” admits Matthew. “And I doubt James could handle the confrontation at the moment.”

“Ah, yes. I heard about Grace Herondale this morning. Well, I suppose it’s Grace Blackthorn now. Or it will be, soon. I don’t imagine James is the type of man to take being lied to lightly.” 

“Did you know her?” Asks Lucie.

He shrugs. “No more than you two did, I suppose. Her mother called me to their home, years ago.”

“What did she want?” Lucie’s heart begins to pound. 

“Something impossible.” Magnus’s cat eyes suddenly narrow. Lucie stills. “Matthew, your tie is askew.”

“It is?” Matthew looks down at himself, frowning. “Shall I adjust it this way, then?”

“Absolutely not,” Magnus declares. “Take an old dandy’s word for it. Why don’t you take this opportunity to fix it? The wash closet is down that hallway, to the left.”

Matthew, looking disgruntled, exits the room. 

“I’m afraid you have a poor poker face.” 

“A shame,” says Lucie. “I thought I was doing admirably.”

“Oh, you were. During the part of the conversation in which you were not interested.” Lucie shoots him a disgruntled look usually reserved for James. Magnus grins, his cat eyes tilting up slightly. 

“No, you perked up almost instantly when I mentioned Grace’s name. I hope you don’t intend to follow in your brother’s footsteps and carry on a long, twisted, unrequited love affair with her. That would rather upset your father and I see too much of him as it is.”

“It isn’t Grace I’m interested in.” Lucie takes a deep breath. “It’s her brother. Jesse.”

This time, Magnus looks at her. And he sighs. It is a sigh that punctures her very bones, her world-weary soul. “Lucie, I have lived many lives. I have seen things you can only imagine, and done things you can only imagine. I have had excitement and adventure in my life. I know mundanes and Shadowhunters alike enjoy rhapsodizing about immortality. But the cruelty of it all is that though I have lived the lives of a mortal over and over again, I have only one life that belongs to me. And sometimes I feel that I carry the sorrows of those mortal lives within me.” 

“So you won’t help me?” Demands Lucie. “You haven’t even heard what I want to ask of you!”

“I don’t have to. Do you know how your father and I became acquainted? Will arrived on my doorstep, mired in ruthless guilt. You can sympathize, but not empathize, with what it was like looking at him—he is a much more different man today, and for the better. But I also knew your grandfather. The very first time I met him, he made the decision to leave his Shadowhunter life behind to be with your grandmother. 

“My point is, you Herondales are inextricably tied to emotion. You live your lives by their mercurial whims. And when you make decisions based on those unpredictable waves, you cannot see yourself drowning until it is too late. 

“I will help you in whatever way I can with Jesse Blackthorn, but I caution you: Love is the universal master, and I have seen many friends—and enemies—fall out of favor with it.”

“I don’t love Jesse,” Lucie insists, her cheeks heating.

Magnus gives her a sad smile. 

_Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu . . ._

_Laissez-le-moi_

_Encore un peu,_

_Mon amoureux._

Grace squirms on the rigid cot and nestles deeper into her scratchy blanket. Her head feels lighter, unused to the absence of nearly a feet of hair. The thin shift she had been given does nothing to shield against the perpetual draft in her cell. Dust, dirt, and bloodstain residue layers the stone floor beneath her. 

She closes her eyes and tries to think of anything but the tears that burn through every vein in her body. Lucie Herondale had visited a few hours ago, blue eyes alight with anxiety. “I talked with Magnus,” she had whispered to Grace, looking around fearfully as if a Silent Brother would swoop in and take her away. “He gave me some ideas for how to approach Jesse’s situation.”

“But Tatiana already talked to him. He wasn’t willing to . . . do what was required.”

Lucie had looked grim. “Magnus promised me that he would look into different methods and confer with some of his warlock friends.” 

Grace had nodded silently, and with one last wary glance, Lucie had departed. 

Now, Grace turns the new information over in her mind. She dares not to dream. She knows about Jesse’s last breath. Grace closes her eyes. She had never bought into Tatiana’s deranged revenge quest. All she had wanted was Jesse back, to see the gleam in his eyes and feel the warmth of his embrace. But it has been so long since she has seen those eyes and been clasped in that embrace, and the energy required for Jesse’s return has ebbed away with the tide of time. Now Grace is so unbearably exhausted, all spark of life leeching out of her pale skin and into the soundproof bricks of the Silent City. 

“Grace.” The sound is barely audible and Grace trembles slightly. 

“Grace.” That sound, again, so soft and hesitant that it can only be coming from her own diseased mind. The Silent City drives people mad, as the rumors go. 

“Grace.” 

She stops moving. The sound of that voice, the memory of a damp dress and the scent of burning paper in the air—“No,” she whispers to herself. 

“Grace, it’s me. It’s Christopher.” 

~*~

His pulse thuds so loudly in his ears that his vision blurs with the pounding. Christopher watches the small figure on the bed stiffen and roll slowly over until he comes face to face with a very pale, very thin Grace Blackthorn. Her glossy blonde hair, once trailing down her back like gold tear tracks, now only reaches a little past her shoulders. Patches of gray underscore her eyes. “Christopher?”

“Grace.” He advances. She pulls away. Christopher tries not to read too much into the action, tries to ignore the stab of pain that runs through his chest. “Grace, are you all right?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Grace whispers. “You’re—you’re hurt.”

“I’ve recovered. Mostly.” He blinks. “Of course, there’s still some tenderness in my tendons and my left knee clicks when I walk, but—oh.” Glistening tears drip down Grace’s face. “Grace, why do you cry?”

She laughs, a sound as hard as diamonds. “Leave, Christopher. Leave this place and never search for me again.” 

“Not until you tell me why you’re crying.”

“Christopher, leave.”

“No.” 

“Christopher—”

“Let me help you.”

She shakes her head. “You cannot.”

“I can. You can leave with me. I can find a way out.” He grips the bars of her cell, the icy metal slicing into his hands. “Grace.”

“Leave.” 

“Why?”

“Because I do not want your help. I do not want to leave with you.” 

“Grace—”

“Don’t you understand?” She pleads. “Christopher, please, go before one of the Brothers finds you.” 

“Grace, I do not blame you for the attack. You do know that, do you not?” Grace flinches, her entire body jolting. “My father told me what you said in the library.”

“Then you know that I have caused you and your family unspeakable pain.” 

“No.” Christopher shakes his head. “I don’t believe that. I don’t believe you.”

“Then you are a fool, Christopher Lightwood.” Haughtiness enters her voice. “Leave before I call the Silent Brothers.” 

Christopher may be perhaps the only person in his family who does not hate Grace. She has aided in awful acts against the people whom he loves, turning a cold cheek not only to the world’s ethics but also to the very people who had taken her in. 

Yet beneath the coldness, Christopher notes, is fear. A chokingly strong sense of fear, so acute that sometimes he can nearly reach out and grasp it. The coldness is merely gilt on top of the fear, something shiny for people to be blinded by and walk away from. It is a fact that no one apart from himself is willing to acknowledge.

He does not notice Grace standing directly before him before she reaches through the bars and turns his hand in hers. Her hand is warm despite the dank cell, sending a thrill through him. “Christopher.” 

~*~

“Christopher,” says Grace, her voice lilting. He looks up at her dreamily, fog entering his gaze. It hurts her to do this, rents her heart into innumerable, jagged pieces. “Christopher, isn’t it time for you to return to London?”

“London?” He queries. “London . . .” 

“Yes, _London.”_ She lets the word roll a little longer than it should. “Where your parents and sister and cousins are waiting. They’re all waiting for you. In fact, you may be late for their meeting.” 

“Late?” Christopher repeats, alarmed. “Matthew will never forgive me if I’m late. I’ve been late to the past four meetings already, and he’s complained multiple times about me missing his new outfit of the day. One time he wore paisley just for me, even though paisley is forty years out of fashion, because he knows how much I like paisley.” Grace could have wept at Christopher’s wrinkled brow, at his earnestness. “Forgive me, Grace, but I must be off.”

“Of course,” she says faintly. “Goodbye, Christopher. Safe travels.” He beams and bounds down the corridor. 

Grace slides to the floor and weeps. 

_Six mois, trois mois, deux mois..._

_Laissez-le-moi_

_Pour seulement_

_Un mois..._

“She is descended from the Fair Folk.”

“What?” Lucie’s head whips to Magnus. 

“Indeed. I obtained a copy of Shadowhunter records from the past three centuries and somewhere up the Cartwright line, one of Grace’s ancestors was a member of the fay. That likely explains her ability to speak mesmerizingly. It also explains why she was initially unable to bend James to her will—Belial’s blood is stronger than all else, even faerie magic.” 

“Do you think Tatiana knew? When she adopted her?”

Magnus frowns. “It’s possible, but unlikely. At that point, she had not yet begun communicating with Belial, and searching all of Shadowhunter England for young girls who just happen to have fay abilities is an onerous and very specific undertaking.” He checks his pocket watch. “At any rate, I must be off. I am to meet Ragnor at Greenwich Pier.”

“Will you ask him for—”

“Yes, Lucie, I will ask him for more information on Belial.” Magnus shakes his head. “So pushy, you Herondales.” He pats her on the shoulders and takes his leave. 

~*~

Lucie does not sleep that night. Instead, the harsh scratching of her pen on parchment and the flickering light of a single candle fills her bedroom. She squeezes her eyes, willing the painful dryness to dissipate. 

“You should sleep.”

“And you should stop spying on me.” 

Jesse peers over the corner of her table at her words. “What adventure is the Beautiful Cordelia on this time?”

“She’s searching the world for a way to bring back the dead.” 

Jesse is nearly incorporeal, yet Lucie feels him freeze. “Lucie,” he says softly.

“What?”

“You must stop.”

“Stop what?” 

“Lucie,” Jesse repeats. She cannot bring herself to look at him, to look at his fading edges and know that soon he will no longer appear in her bedroom. He will no longer gingerly sit on the edge of her bed while she explains to him the plot of _The Beautiful Cordelia,_ or while she complains about the nib of her pen breaking after just days of use. “You must let me go. We met by chance, did we not? Allow chance to part us, then. Let us look upon our time together as a privilege.”

“A privilege,” Lucie says dully. 

“Yes,” replies Jesse firmly. “A privilege.”

“And you want nothing more? Nothing more than these last few months? I thought you my friend, Jesse.” 

“I _am_ your friend.” He snaps, hurt framing his words. “But Lucie, do you not feel as though we have stolen from the universe? That our time together has been a blip in the map of the magical world? I cherish you. I cherish our nights together and I cherish what you have done for my sister. But I know—I have always known—my fate. I have escaped death for nearly a decade. And now that my mother has resorted to dark methods to attempt resurrection—and now that her actions have brought ruin upon not only my sister but also everyone that _you_ love—it is my time to go. I can no longer observe the destruction which my purgatorial existence has brought upon you.” 

“No.” Lucie looks at him for the first time since he materialized. He is so handsome; she has always been an ardent defender of words, a master of her craft, yet Jesse is the only thing in the world that can make her doubt the ability of words. No measly, mortal words can accurately describe Jesse Blackthorn, not in the way he deserves to be described. “I will not.” 

“Lucie. Let me go.” 

“No!” A note of panic enters her voice and she looks around furiously, hoping she did not wake anyone. “I won’t!” 

“Lucie—” Jesse’s eyes stray to the window. Day’s arrows strike through the cloudy night. “Lucie, listen to me. You must let me go. Bringing me back, putting me back into my body—it will never satiate my mother’s desire for power. Do not forget that she wants revenge upon my uncles and my cousins as well. Let me go, and there will be one less issue to which you must attend.”

“You are not an issue,” Lucie says obstinately. 

“Lucie—” he stretches out a hand, but he is quickly fading. “Lucie, I—”

A blinding ray of sun slots in through her window, and Jesse is gone. 

_Même si j’ai tort,_

_Laissez-le-moi_

_Encore…_

_You have a visitor,_ speaks the Silent Brother in her head. 

Grace shivers at the intrusion. “Tell Lucie I am not well enough to receive visitors, please.” 

“It’s not Lucie.” 

There, outside her cell, stand James and Cordelia.


End file.
